


Take Good Care

by Annanymitea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Common Cold, Pre-Slash, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:34:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annanymitea/pseuds/Annanymitea
Summary: The first - and last - time Sherlock made John work while sick.
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

As a doctor and a soldier, John Watson had observed there were two types of people when it came to colds - wallowers and troopers. Wallowers made it quite apparent that they were ill to anyone who cared to notice. They demanded care - they were most likely to show up with a simple cold at the surgery, only to be told there was nothing anyone could do. Troopers either hibernated away from other people or carried on with their regular business with little or no complaining, depending on the severity of their cold.

  
It would come as a surprise to absolutely no one who knew him that Sherlock Holmes was a wallower. Colds were met with dramatic sneezing and sniffling, whining, and disdain for John’s medical advice. Sherlock often worked through colds if he could, but made those around him nearly as miserable as he was. Sherlock typically mooned about the flat with his cold, which meant that John was likely to catch it since the man wouldn’t stay isolated.

  
Fortunately, John was more of a trooper. If he could work through his cold, he did, and could push himself hard if he thought it was called for. But he wasn’t above taking a day off if needed. When he wasn’t doing something strictly necessary he sought solitude in his room. All he wanted was privacy in which to blow his nose and silence in which to nurse his headache. Once he was hunkered down it was difficult to rouse him until he was fully recovered. Which was exactly why John was so frustrated to have Sherlock lingering in his bedroom doorway on his day off.

  
“John, it’s going to be the height of danger. We’ll be staking out the flat of one of the most dangerous mobsters in London.”

  
“I don’t need danger. I need rest. Go away.”

  
“This is your second day off in a row that you’re going to waste hidden away up here dripping mucus. You can drip mucus just as well doing surveillance with me. And you won’t be bored. Come on, Lestrade’s going to be there.” Sherlock, who had lived with John through a few colds now, should have known better.

  
“I didn’t have a day off yesterday, I called off because I was ill. And I still am. Go away.”

  
“Look, you know the tainted drugs that made their way into the city that are killing and sickening  
people left and right?” Sherlock asked, rocking back on his heels.

  
“Yes?” John had treated one of the men who had died - a young addict who had been in recovery when John saw him. Having been kicked out of his house by his parents when they found out he was gay, he had been a young artist with a kind smile and a fair bit of talent.

  
“I have it on good authority that the mob is the one bringing them in. And I want to catch them in the act. Come on - you’re on the upswing of this thing.”  
  
It always made John a bit nervous when Sherlock got involved in cases related to drugs. He was afraid he would suddenly find life boring and go back to using; John didn’t know what he would do if that happened. Still, he would have Lestrade with him. At that moment John, hunched in his bed in sweatpants, looked up at Sherlock. His breath caught slightly in his throat to see Sherlock’s eyes shining with the thought of adventure, intrigue and discovery. In truth, it was hard for John to deny him. And Sherlock, as usual, was right that with a day of rest he seemed to be through the worst of his cold.

  
“All right,” John said. “I’ll go. But don’t expect me to do anything too demanding.”

  
****  
The next two days went by in a blur. The first night of stakeout with Lestrade started after dark, which fortunately came early in December, and it extended until nearly dawn. There was definitely plenty of activity at the flat but nothing that could be construed as strictly criminal. John sat in the backseat of the van they were using for surveillance, which was done up to look like a vehicle for a carpet company. By 3am he was exhausted and his head was pounding but there was nothing to be done for it. They headed back to their flat at 5am when Lestrade’s shift changed.

  
John slept until noon and was feeling the worse for wear when he awoke. Sherlock was nowhere to be found and John was settling himself in the afternoon when he popped back up and spent an hour presenting John with convincing evidence that he had found the dealer getting the drugs from the mob, which were being smuggled up the Thames.

  
“Go down to the docks with me. We’ll catch him in the act. I decoded this message that says a shipment is coming in tonight at 10.” John grumbled but then, figuring if he was in for a penny and might as well be in for a pound, acquiesced. He felt rubbish but was hopeful that if he helped Sherlock solve the case and stop the drug shipment he would be allowed to sleep through the night that night.

  
However, sleeping through the night was not to be. Sherlock may have decoded the message incorrectly as midnight found them hiding in a warehouse with no one to be seen and John muffling sneezes into the sleeve of his coat and shivering.

  
“Shhhh,” Sherlock admonished him.

  
“You have got to be kidding,” John hissed back, anger sparking. “I’m sitting in this stupid warehouse with you trying not to cough my brains out and you shush me. That’s it. I’m done, I’m going back to the flat. You can freeze your arse off in this godforsaken place without me.”

  
John stomped his way out of the warehouse and was making his way back to the main road, wheezing. Stopping to hawk up junk (disgusting) he heard the low sound of a motor boat pulling closer to shore. Just then, an expensive black SUV pulled down toward the warehouse where Sherlock was still hiding. John pressed himself flat against the closest building and watched as two rough-looking men and a poshly dressed fellow departed the vehicle.

  
John sensed trouble. He turned around and swiftly, silently made his way around to the back of the warehouse.

  
And a good thing he did. As he sucked air in through his sore throat and down into his mucky lungs as quietly as he could, he observed Sherlock standing ankle-deep in the river, at gunpoint, hands up in the air. John’s heart skipped two beats. He crouched down and tried to make his way closer, coming up behind the gunman from behind as quietly as he could.

  
“I’ve already called for backup.” Sherlock’s deep voice rang out over the lapping water. “And killing me isn’t going to help you now.”

  
John didn’t think Sherlock could see him from where he was. This was his only chance to intervene and he wasn’t going to lose it. He started running and before his feet splashed into the water to give him away, launched himself at the man with the gun. The gun discharged and John and gunman both went down in the freezing shallows of the Thames. John tried to wrestle the man, who was taller but not stronger, into a position where he could hold him down but it was a challenge as everything was wet. John could hear Sherlock’s ragged breath as the man splashed about nearby.

“John! I’ve got the gun!” Sherlock shouted out. John rolled off the man into the water as Sherlock pointed the gun at their now-hostage in one smooth motion. John was getting to his feet when a fleet of police cars pulled up, sirens on full blast.

  
“Are you all right?” John asked Sherlock, hoping the gunshot hadn’t hit him.

“Of course I am.” Sherlock said, eyes narrowed in John’s direction. “You came back.”

“Of course I did.” John huffed out, triggering a coughing fit. The cold breeze blew lightly against his wet clothes and he shivered. This was not going to help his cold.


	2. Chapter 2

Two things were bothering Sherlock as he sat in the police station trying to sort things out with Lestrade. One was his soggy shoes and socks from standing in the Thames. The other was a feeling he wasn’t used to but finally placed after a few minutes - guilt.

  
The first twinge of guilt came upon him when he realized they were not going to be permitted to go home immediately. John was not looking well. He had shed his wet coat and was wrapped in one of those ridiculous shock blankets and he was pale in the dead-of-night darkness. Lestrade drove them back to the station, lecturing the whole time; Sherlock sat in the front seat with him and turned the heat on full blast hoping to warm John, seated in the rear. Once they were inside the station Lestrade got them both a cup of coffee and then the questions started.

It took about an hour for Sherlock to explain how he had deduced the connections between the mob and the tainted drugs, decoded the message, describe what had happened down at the docks, and inform the police of where they should be looking for additional evidence. John wasn’t complaining but he sounded terrible - nasal, hoarse, and unable to stop coughing as he answered questions and explained his side of the night’s events. Even Lestrade noticed, fetching him tissues from a supply closet. Finally, with their story fully revealed, Lestrade drove them home, saying to Sherlock “I don’t want to expose a cab driver to whatever plague you got John ill with.” John rolled his eyes but didn’t protest, still clutching the shock blanket over clothes that had dried on him.

  
The guilt tingled along Sherlock’s spine.

  
Back at Baker Street, John sat on the sofa to remove his shoes and socks, which Sherlock was sure were as annoyingly soggy as his own. Sherlock headed into his room to remove his own waterlogged footwear. He sniffed his wet shoe and frowned. He was afraid the leather was not going to recover.

  
“I suspect these shoes are ruined,” he groused to John as he swept his way back into the sitting room. He looked toward the sofa only to discover that John had fallen asleep sitting up and was snoring softly. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether it would be better to wake him or not and after a few moments of staring decided he would risk trying to get him to lay down, and if he woke during that, John could go back to his bedroom. He gently coaxed John into laying down, and although he snorted a bit, the man was too exhausted to fully awaken. Sherlock noted that he was definitely warmer than usual - the guilt resurfaced as he realized John was running a fever.

  
Sherlock covered John with a blanket and checked his watch: 2:30am. Just enough time to grab a few hours of sleep before moving on to his next project - which he would have to perform around keeping an eye on his sick flatmate, clearly.  
****  
John woke himself up coughing and quickly wished he was still asleep. He groaned as he pawed himself into a sitting position, causing his head to spin. It felt like his head was full of mud, his throat was on fire, and his entire face was sore and puffy. His body was aching and with the way he felt he wouldn’t be surprised if he was running a fever. He felt disgusting, having fallen asleep in the clothes he’d worn when he took a dunk in the Thames. As his coughing fit straggled out he realized Sherlock was seated nearby in his chair.

  
“Good morning.” His roommate’s deep voice rumbled out.

“Is it?”

  
A shadow passed over Sherlock’s face as he regarded John, but it was an expression John couldn’t place. “I’ve prepared a selection of movies for us to watch. I’ve noticed you like to watch them when you’re feeling poorly. I thought we could start with The Godfather. It’s nearly lunchtime and I was thinking Pho for lunch, you know, from that place you like around the corner. Unless you prefer something different?”

  
John rubbed his hands across his aching face. “Oh, God, what time is it? I have to get to the clinic.”

  
Sherlock eyebrows raised up in surprise. “Surely you can prescribe whatever medication you need for yourself. I can swing by Bart’s and get it, I’m sure Molly would help me.”

  
John shook his head. “I have clinic duty this afternoon. I called off the other day and don’t want to do it again.”

  
Sherlock’s eyebrows raised further and he snorted. “You can’t possibly believe you can work like this. You’re a mess. You can barely talk, how are you going to see patients?”

  
“I’ve fought in a war and almost been blown up by a villain, you may remember. I think I can stand to work through a cold.”

  
“I don’t think you’re being rational,” Sherlock said, eyes bouncing back and forth as he scanned John’s body, “and I think you’ve got more than a cold. Adults don’t run fevers with cold.”

  
“Medical doctor.” John pointed at himself as stood up. Pointing at Sherlock he stated, “Master chemist. Sod off.”

  
“John, don’t be an idiot. You need to stay home and you know it.”

John pressed his lips together in a way that Sherlock had come to recognize meant he was trying to hold his temper. John’s voice came out, low and gravelly. “You’ve got no right to tell me what to do. Not only have you consistently shown terrible judgment in your own health, it’s your fault that I feel like this. I don’t need medical - or any other - advice from you.”

Sherlock kept his eyes fastened on John as he crossed the sitting room and headed down the hall. Damn John Watson and his soldierly stoicism. Sherlock waited until he heard the shower turning on, then pulled out his mobile phone and fired off rapid texts. He knew exactly who to contact in this situation.


	3. Chapter 3

Standing in the shower, John felt like his entire face had turned on like a tap. Sherlock was right, damn him, this thing had developed into a sinus infection, helped no doubt by a total absence of rest or decent night of sleep. He had already missed a day of work, however, and during flu season that was no joke. It was unacceptable to his sense of duty to miss another, especially as he had just had two off. He had fought wars and worked often while ill, which was just as well since he was an aching, snotty mess. It wouldn’t be pretty to work but it would be possible.

  
John formulated a plan while he scrubbed his body and washed his hair: he would take paracetamol at home to dispel the worst of his pains. He would arrive early at the clinic and dope himself to the eyeballs with decongestant - the good stuff from the surgery - then grab a double espresso from the cafe across the street. He would prescribe himself and start a course of antibiotics. That should carry him through to the end of the day. Then he would come home, slurp some soup, and sleep for 12 hours, hoping and praying that he could do it all again the next day. With the antibiotics, he ought to feel better in a few days. Beginning to execute on his plan, John dried himself off in the bathroom breathing in as much steam as he could to loosen things up. He blew his nose and palmed two paracetamol.

While he got ready Sherlock had made himself scarce from the shared areas of the flat, which was just fine by John who didn’t need the detective’s sharp eyes watching him. The nerve of the man, suggesting he didn’t know his own capacities, after having pushed him near his limits over the last few days - and after John had saved his arse last night. As though Sherlock Holmes, frequent ignorer of what he referred to as his “transport” should be offering health advice. John snorted at the thought, munching on a piece of toast to better digest his pain relievers, though his throat was so sore it felt like swallowing glass shards.

When he was dressed John gave himself a cursory glance in the mirror. He judged himself a trifle pale, with red-rimmed eyes and nose, but thought it wasn’t too bad. Once he donned his surgical mask his patients would hardly notice.

“I’ll be home tonight,” he called out hoarsely to Sherlock, wherever he might be lurking about the flat. He grabbed his messenger bag, tucked a packet of tissues in his coat pocket, and set out down the stairs.

Opening the door to 221 he had a moment to observe that it was freezing cold when he ran directly into a woman as stepped off the stoop. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” he said, beginning to step around her and then realized it was Sarah.

“John! What are you doing out here?” John heard Sarah ask, when all of a sudden two days with little sleep, a head packed with congestion, and the sudden transition into the cold weather caught up with him. The world tilted and went blurry around the edges.

“I’m going....I think....I’ll just sit for a moment.” John thumped onto the bottom stair, the impact reverberating up his spine.

Sarah rushed forward and kneeled in front of him. “Put your head between your legs,” she advised.

“I can’t,” he groaned, “my head will explode.” John rested with his elbows on his knees and his aching head cradled in his hands while he took several deep breaths through his mouth. After a minute he peeked up at Sarah, who was now standing over him with her arms crossed over her chest with a disapproving look on her face. Attempting to sound casual he asked, “So what brings you here?”

“Sherlock texted me. He said you were in need of antibiotics but didn’t have your prescription pad and I said I’d bring some by on my way. Given that you need these I wasn’t expecting to see you out here.”

John hummed quietly in reply to this. Damn Sherlock Holmes. It was bad enough to work with his ex, but they managed to do just fine most of the time. Sarah had said that in addition to his overly-dangerous hobbies, John seemed preoccupied with other people in his life. John didn’t appreciate the insinuation. He didn’t need Sarah doing him extra favors, especially ones that felt so personal. He levered himself into a standing position, swaying slightly.

“Thank you. You really didn’t have to do that. I’ll take those from you and head upstairs to pop one right now.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Sarah said, disapprovingly. “You weren’t thinking of coming in today, were you?” “Well, I already missed a day. I don’t want to put everyone in a bad position.”

Sarah laughed. “Oh, John. You fell asleep on your first day in my surgery. Surely you didn’t think I would let you work in this state? I wouldn’t let you within 5 meters of a patient. And, actually, since you nearly passed out on your front step, why don’t we head upstairs together and I’ll give you a quick once-over?”

“Ohhh no, I’m really fine. That was a fluke. I’ll stay home if that’s how you feel but I’m ok.” He sniffled, pulling a tissue from his pocket to dab his nose. “Nonsense,” said Sarah. “It’ll take 10 minutes. Come on.”

John rolled his eyes but began trudging up the stairs, Sarah in tow. In 221B Sherlock was still squirreled away in his room, John assumed. He glared down the hall at the closed door. Sarah easily spotted his doctor’s bag tucked away in a corner of the sitting room and propped it open on the coffee table while John took a seat on the sofa, shucking off his coat.

Sarah carried out a quick examination, peeking in his eyes, nose, ears and throat. She ran her hands under his jaw, palpating his glands. She also scanned his forehead with a temporal thermometer, and frowned, showing him the 37.9 degree reading. “I assume you took something that lowered your temperature already? Still warmer than you should be,” she said, as John guiltily avoided eye contact. “Whatever made you think you would be able to work through this? You have one of the worst sinus infections I’ve seen this year, and did you know your left ear is infected, too? Open your shirt, I want to take a listen and make sure you haven’t given yourself bronchitis as well. How did you get so ill?” 

“Hrmph. How does anything like this happen? I was working a case and lost some sleep over it. I thought I was over the cold but it rebounded.” “Lot of late nights with Sherlock, hmmm? Deep breath in.”

John nodded, coughing lightly. “Well, we did catch the bad guys this time,” he said smiling weakly, “although it required a dunk in the Thames.”

Sarah met his eyes and he saw amusement and sadness there in equal measure. She removed the stethoscope from her ears and fished a pill bottle out of her coat pocket. As she packed up his doctor’s bag, she continued talking. “You know what i’m going to say. Rest, drink fluids, and take all the antibiotics. Don’t you dare show your face in the surgery for 3 days unless it’s for treatment. No more running around all night with Sherlock. ”

“I could have taken care of myself,” John grumbled, buttoning his shirt. “Sherlock shouldn’t have texted you.”

“He most certainly should have. You’re being a silly martyr, coming to work in this state. And besides, he clearly cares about you. At least as much as you care about him.”

“He’s a lot of trouble to look after.”

“So are you, clearly. Now go put on sweatpants and get well.”

***

When John returned to the sitting room from getting changed Sherlock was in the kitchen. How well-timed, he thought, folding himself onto the couch. He turned on the television and was flipping through channels, staring into space, and was surprised when Sherlock thunked a mug of tea down in front of him and sat at the other end of the couch, sipping his own.

John picked up his mug. “You texted Sarah without telling me.”

“You were being stupid.”

“You do ridiculous stuff all the time.” John sipped the tea, which soothed his aching throat and sniffled.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. “Yes? Well. You’re not me. And I like it that way.”

“How did you know I had a sinus infection?” 

Sherlock snorted. “John, I may not be a doctor but I have vast medical knowledge, astounding deductive skill, and a history of not listening to my body. I’m familiar with the signs. Besides, after a year as your flatmate I can tell when you’re especially poorly.”

“Mmph. Next time don’t call my ex-girlfriend to look after me. It’s awkward.”

“Very well. Next time I won’t bother you when you’re under the weather. I can’t have my blogger incapacitated for too long. Now, will it be The Godfather, then?”

Sherlock’s kindness and coziness were a welcome surprise. John settled himself further into the sofa. “Yes, let’s start there

“


End file.
